


A Letter From Dave Strider to the Serial Killer Holding Him Hostage

by Astrodynamicist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, consider all the tags relevant to such a situation inserted here, dude's being held captive by a serial killer, so despite the lack of anything graphic actually happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrodynamicist/pseuds/Astrodynamicist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, may I just say, thank you for selecting me as your latest victim. This thing you have about nubile young platinum blonds? Classic serial killer. But anyway, that's not why I'm writing you this letter. I'm writing this because I guess you got bored and thought making me beg for mercy via hastily scribbled note would be hilarious? I don't even know, man. But here we are, me with my urine-stained notebook paper and you with your getting-off-on-serial-killing thing. So let's go. Top Five list. The hit parade of reasons why not to kill me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Letter From Dave Strider to the Serial Killer Holding Him Hostage

**Author's Note:**

> I had an assignment for one of my writing classes which was "A character is being held captive by a sociopath. Write a letter from that character trying to convince the captor to let them go." I had no idea what to do, so I defaulted to Dave Strider. As you do.

Dear Sir,

First, may I just say, _thank you_ for selecting me as your latest victim. Really. This thing you have about nubile young platinum blonds? Classic serial killer. And the way you locked me in your dank as fuck basement and fed me moldy bread for two weeks? Wonderful. Totally endearing. Gonna put that lotion in the basket for sure, dude. It feels like motherfucking Sweden down here, all this misinterpreted kindness we've got going on.

But anyway, that's not why I'm writing you this letter. I'm writing this because I guess you got bored and thought making me beg for mercy via hastily scribbled note would be hilarious? I don't even know, man. But here we are, me with my urine-stained notebook paper and you with your getting-off-on-serial-killing thing. So let's go. Top ~~Ten~~ Five list, best reasons not to fucking murder me Spanish Inquisition style.

(I was gonna do Top Ten, but you seemed to be getting a little impatient out there. Getting pretty twitchy with the pliers. I figured the highlight reel would suffice.)

1) I can pay you. Or at least, my bro can. Dude's rich. Like, 6 figure salary rich. You got some fancy-ass sports car you've been drooling over? We can buy you twelve. Put ribbons on, even. You can kidnap your next victim in style. Fucker's gonna be like, whoa, dude, I'm gonna die, but at least I got to spend my last moments in the trunk of a Ferrari. Get to check that one off the bucket list. Seriously dude, nubile blond boys will just be lining up for you to carry them away in your sweet as fuck new car. You'll have so many pretty boys to torture to death, you'll need the mansion we can buy you just to hold them all. So many bitches, so little time. Amirite?

2) This torturing people to death thing? Shit's mad illegal, dude. I know that doesn't mean much to a guy that's successfully murderfied, what did you say, eight teenagers so far without being found out? But eventually the cops'll catch on. Despite the predilection for casually pepper-spraying peaceful college kids, and some weird obsession with donuts, the police force around here is actually pretty goddamn competent. Quit while you're ahead. I swear I won't snitch, and you can probably get away scot-free. Leave the country. Find a nice cabana out in the middle of buttfuck nowhere on some sketchy-ass little island nation that never extradites people back to the US. Maybe get your Eat, Pray, Love on. Find enlightenment. Vivisect squirrels instead of actual human beings. I don't fucking care, dude, but you seriously need a to find a hobby less likely to land you in the electric chair. It's only a matter of time. Just sayin'. Just a little advice from a concerned party. And hey, we can even cover your relocation expenses. So there's that, too.

3) I know guys like you are literally constitutionally incapable of giving a shit what other people think, but the public at large is gonna be mad about this. Like, torches and pitchforks, tear down the castle and lynch the mad scientist mad. 'Cuz the thing is, this story is gonna break like a sweet swell on a porcelain-white Hawaiian beach. Folks are going to notice my absence - probably have already. I mean, it's been two weeks of radio silence. There are girls and boys with my name tattooed on their fabulous asses wondering where me and my gorgeous face and wicked lovemaking skills went. There is _wailing_ happening right now, mark my words. And the major news networks are going to listen. The stink raised from my absence will rise to high heaven until God himself starts to wonder what the fuck happened. Before long, it won't just be some mysterious little missing person complaint. There will be posses. There will be bloodhounds. The game will be afoot and there will be no stopping that juggernaut. Not until my broken and bloodied body is dragged out of this stinking cesspit and cradled Pieta-style on national television, your ugly head raised high on a pike behind it serving as a poor reparation for the grievous sin of stealing my life away.

4) I am not going down without a fight. That's a promise. I fight like a trapped rodent, like a weasel in a corner, like motherfucking Rikki Tikki Tavi facing off against Nag and Nagaina. I kick. I scratch. I bite. You know how much bacteria is in a human mouth? Enough to ruin your whole damn day. And for all you know, I'm HIV positive. Have fun licking my blood off your knives, you sick fuck. You won't last for long after that.

5) My brother will _fucking kill you_. Batman will begin. The Dark Knight will rise. You like your little killing joke? Well, you aren't even gonna make it to Arkham, buddy. My bro will straight-up murder you cold for what you did to me. You won't escape him. Dude's the next best thing to a ninja you can find outside of feudal Japan. And when he does find you? It'll be a bullet through the eye, or a knife across the throat. Just that. No talking. No time for your fucking stupid head games. No chance to pull a fucking Hannibal Lecter. Just death. You like your life, buddy? _Let me go_.

And there you have it. The hit parade of reasons why not to kill me. I could go on, but we seem to be out of time here. My compliments, by the way, to whatever late night infomercial host convinced you to buy that particular knife set. Shit looks goddamn expensive.

If you have any sense, you won't use it.

Well, I've made my case. Here lie my last words, writ in cheap pencil in light too dim to see by, in a room that smells worse than a gas station bathroom. Farewell cruel world, I hardly knew thee. Tell my cat I love her.

Sincerely,

and by sincerely I mean _fuck you,_

Dave Strider

PS: Go to Hell.


End file.
